Sherlock Holmes and the Holy Grail
by alyxpoe
Summary: A night of unwinding and blowing off steam. Rated "T" for language.


**Sherlock Holmes and the Holy Grail**

SNORT!  
John and Greg were almost doubled over, laughing into their pints. What started out as a quick drink after finishing a string of tough cases, and then returning a pair of scared-but-otherwise-unhurt children to their worried parents turned out to be a party.

Sherlock was unhappy.  
He sat at the end of the bar, a tangle of long arms and legs, pouting.

Another loud bout of laughter as another officer came in through the doors.  
John, loudly this time: "She turned me into a NEWT!"  
It was amazing that the doctor had not overturned his pint, his hands were shaking so hard from mirth.  
Greg answered John back, even louder (if that was even possible): "I GOT BETTA."

The two men were almost rolling in the floor. It was amazing to Sherlock that either one of them were even ingesting their beers, Lestrade's glass filled with a softly golden liquid and John's with a dark brown, well, brew. He huffed and tried to make himself shrink into the stool he was currently curled upon.  
The door opened again, letting a cold breeze from the night rush into the pub. Sherlock inwardly groaned. Sally.  
She ignored him, however, with the riot that John and Greg were causing in the corner. They were laughing like children who had just pulled a massive prank.

Greg chuckled into his glass and launched into it again: "What? Ridden on a horse?"  
Watson's reply was genial and a bit slurred: "Yes!" He raised his glass of Guinness into the air as if making the exclamation point to the crowd of laughing police officers standing around.  
Greg froze and rolled his eyes (Sherlock waited for the older man to pass out cold…) then he said with a flourish, actually spilling a few drops of his beer on the tile floor: "You're using coconuts!"  
Again a loud snort from John as he peered down into his glass, wondering where his beverage had gone, when a wave of laughter from the crowd made him start and look up, smiling. He paused dramatically and attempted to keep a straight face: "What?!" He asked Greg, lifting an eyebrow in an obvious imitation of his partner.  
It was Greg's turn to snort and slap his empty hand on his thigh. His face was red from laughing so long, but he couldn't contain it any longer. "You've got two empty halves of coconuts and you're bangin' em together."

This time no one could understand John's reply. The whole crowd erupted in what Sherlock could only define as giggles. He was torn between watching this strange pantomime and wanting to leave the pub.

There was a bit of silence for just a few moments as Sally brought John and Greg fresh beers. She smiled at the two men and sipped at her own glass. With a straight face she looked Lestrade right in the eye and belted out "Oh, but you can't expect to wield supreme executive power just because some watery tart threw a sword at you!"

The pub erupted once again, and Sally was laughing along with everyone else, well, everyone else except for Sherlock. He huffed again. Really? What was the point in all of this? He attempted to glare over at his partner, with absolutely no success. John's face was lit up, his ears were red, and the fringe on his forehead was even a little sweaty. His eyes sparkled with mischief. Sherlock knew he was only staying because of that laugh…his John and his laugh. He did not give a whit about the rest of the people here, though he attempted to understand what was happening…he just could not give in and laugh back with them.

Someone near the two men called out: "Look, you stupid bastard. You've got no arms left!"  
Greg roared back "Yes I have!"  
John's reply was no quieter "Look!"  
Everyone in the pub (except Sherlock that is) seemed to be on the same wavelength and the answer was loud and obnoxious:  
"IT'S JUST A FLESH WOUND"  
Tears were leaking out of the doctor's eyes as he did everything but fall and roll around in the floor. His whole body was shaking with unsuppressed glee.

There was a brief interlude while the doctor and the D.I. sat in their chairs and got their breath back. Short bursts of conversation were breaking out among the pub patrons and the police force. John's eyes were closed and he rested his head on the back of the high-backed chair. Sherlock turned back to his partner and wondered if it would be safe to head back to Baker Street. Just as he started to stand up, the murmur of words jumped up and floated towards the happily sodden men.

Somehow, Greg and John heard the snippet of conversation at the same time. One of the officers was arguing with another about a murder that had taken place the week prior. It really wasn't funny, but it set the two men to it once again. At the same time, as if it had been rehearsed, they bellowed:  
"Please! This is supposed to be a happy occasion. Let's not bicker over who killed who!"

And they were off and running. Sherlock wasn't going to take much more of this. He untangled his limbs and put his designer-shoe clad feet on the floor. He could not understand how they all had not been thrown out by this time, with all the ruckus they were raising, as he had been tossed out for lots less.

He calmly walked over to where John and Greg were now standing, one hand around each others' shoulders and the other hand full of a pint. Together they were singing strange lyrics that made absolutely no sense and slowly rocking back and forth, their eyes almost closed. Occasionally one or the other would hysterically giggle and almost spill his drink. To everyone else in the pub, it was just a hilarious bit of fun, hard-working men blowing off steam and getting their emotions right with the world. To Sherlock it was a ridiculous waste of brain power.

Sherlock slowly laid his palm on the underside of John's arm. John startled slowly and then looked up at his partner and lazily grinned a big sloppy grin. Before the detective could back away, the doctor planted a big sloppy kiss right on Sherlock's down-turned lips.  
Everyone in the pub froze. Sherlock stared at John and John giggled.

Sherlock smiled and shrugged. The Yarders were going to find out sooner or later.

He looked down at John's blissful expression and said quietly with measured precision and a melted chocolate velvety smooth French accent: "You don't frighten us, English pig dogs."  
John hardly missed a beat with his reply, which was slightly more slurred: "Go and boil your bottoms, you sons of a silly person!"

Lestrade was the first one to break the tension when he snorted, tried to chuckle, choked on his beer and actually fell over his chair. The next day he would wonder which thing surprised him most—that kiss or the fact that Sherlock bloody Holmes knew any of the lines from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. He would later decide that it was probably the latter rather than the former.

* * *

**Notes: ****_Honestly, I'm not sure what the point of this was. I was watching this movie and I had to wonder if John liked it, too. I hope I haven't insulted anyone, but please feel free to let me know what you thought. Originally published on AO3 2-24-13._**


End file.
